Addictions
by Memories Left Abandoned
Summary: In my life, I've been addicted to exactly three things. Slash, now continued with a companion. More to come, probably.
1. Addictions

A/N: I have no idea where this came from, but it sort of wrote itself, so I hope you enjoy it.

**Disclaimer: National Treasure isn't mine. Neither is iTunes. Or iPods. Or Moby Dick.**

In my life, I have been addicted to exactly three things, and I can date and identify each addiction and why it started.

The first is technology. The most obvious of my three addictions, it started when I was in fifth grade and I discovered I could completely dismantle a computer and put it back together in a matter of minutes—and it still worked. The addiction has manifested itself in a variety of ways, including a collection of working and un-working laptops and various mp3 players and iPods. When the new iPod nanos came out, I spent no less than forty minutes in the store, staring at the display and trying to decide on a color. I also name every device I purchase, the most normal being an ancient, now discarded laptop named Ahab (I'd just read Moby Dick).

The second is yo-yoing. This is my strangest addiction, and it started for an odd reason as well. I was in seventh grade, and I'd earned just enough money to buy something at the store. I had no idea what I wanted, and it wasn't very much money, but it was mine, and I was intent on spending it that day, before my father found it and took it. I found a yo-yo, and I found that I had exactly enough to buy it. I was ecstatic, although I was a terrible yo-yoer at first. I learned, though, and within a few days I was performing tricks like nobody's business. The next year I even won a talent contest at my school for it, which won me a date with a very pretty girl who dumped me after about a week. I moved on—I bought a new yo-yo, and I've been addicted since then.

My third addiction is candy hearts. When I was a kid I hated the candy, and the holiday associated with them. I'd watched too many other little kids get them when I was left alone in my sugarless despair. My loneliness became cynicism, and by high school I took Valentine's Day with a grain of salt, but for some reason I never got over my deep-rooted hate of the stupid little hearts. By the time I became an adult, I more or less forgot about the holiday, until one night.

I was typing away on my computer, coding a program that would bypass payment on iTunes, when Ben let himself into our—his—apartment. After I'd gotten thrown out of my own, I had come to live with him for a few days, which had become a few weeks, until he finally just offered to let me live here. It was late, and I was tiring slightly, when Ben entered and threw a box at me before heading into the kitchen. "What's this?" I'd asked.

"Candy hearts."

I looked down at the box, at first in contempt, and then in realization. I was silent, having no idea how to respond. As I thought of a reply, he walked by again, probably on his way to bed.

"Happy Valentine's Day."

He continued on his way, and I glanced again at the box. A million questions entered my mind. Was it Valentine's Day? Had I really forgotten? Did these mean what I thought they meant? …Did they taste any different from the way I remembered last having them, in about second grade?

I ripped open the box, and found that, if possible, they tasted more delicious than ever. I smiled.

Abandoning the box next to my laptop, I followed him to the back of the apartment, where his bedroom was.

"Did… those mean what I think they mean?" I asked, entering his room and sitting on the bed.

"Depends," he answered, reappearing in pajamas. "What do you think they meant?"

"Nevermind," I said, standing. "They probably aren't what I think they are. Good night." I tried to leave as quickly as possible, having utterly humiliated myself, when he caught my arm and spun me around, capturing my lips in a mind-blowing kiss.

When we broke for air, he asked, "Is that what you thought they meant?"

"Something along those lines," I answered, and he smiled.

And I've been addicted since then.

A/N: I'm subconsciously planning a companion fic to this, from Ben's point of view. Maybe. …leave a review?


	2. Yellow

**A/N: This popped into my head at like, one thirty last night. And then I couldn't get it out. Enjoy, as it's total and complete fluff.**

**Disclaimer: If I owned Riley… I would be stealing his yellow hearts. But I don't.**

He actually sorts candy hearts by color.

He was working on something on his computer one night when I came in, and he had a bag of them open next to him. As I took my coat off and hung it up, I noticed that, as soon as he poured out a pile of them, he took his eyes off his computer and sorted them into a little pile by color. There was a bigger pile towards the edge of the table of all whites.

"Hey," I greeted him.

His head shot up—he hadn't noticed me. "Um, hey," he said, moving his piles to where he thought I couldn't see them. "So… what's up?"

"You left the white ones," I said, pointing to the offending candies.

Looking embarrassed, he moved the stack to behind his computer. I watched him as he tried to play it off and pretend nothing had happened.

"Are you gonna explain that?" I asked.

"I wasn't going to," he said, sighing exasperatedly, "but now it sounds like I don't have a choice." He moved the stacks back out into the open. "I have a touch of OCD when it comes to colors. I don't like to eat them together, so I sort them into piles and eat them one by one, starting with my least favorite flavor. I don't like the white ones at all," he said.

I smiled at him. "And you do that with all candy?"

He nodded. "Even M&M's, which don't taste any different by color. It's just a habit."

"You don't like the white ones?" I asked, grabbing a few.

"No. You can have what you want, just don't take the yellow," he said, guarding the yellow hearts. "They're my favorite."

I repressed my laugh. "Why is that?"

"They taste like bubblegum," he answered, returning his eyes to the computer screen and absentmindedly grabbing a pink heart.

I chewed my candy contemplatively. "What are you working on?"

"Oh, just some stuff," he said, taking another pink heart.

"What kind of stuff?" I asked, hoping to get him distracted.

It worked. Without looking up at me, he went on a long tangent of technical talk that I didn't really understand. A mischievous grin in place, I grabbed the whole pile of yellow hearts on the table—a total of six little candies.

"Hey!" he yelled, his mouth agape and his eyes rapidly switching gazes between me and the now-empty spot on the table. "You took my yellow hearts!"

I raised my eyebrows. "And?"

He pursed his lips. "Give 'em back. They're mine."

"Possessive, are we?" I asked with a grin.

"Give. Them. Back," he murmured through his lips.

We were in a standoff of sorts. He had stood and was looking ready to pounce at me at any moment, and I stood farther away from him, the yellow candies in my hand held for him to see. "Come and get 'em," I said.

A moment of silence rang out, followed by a battle cry on his part and a laugh on mine. He dashed around the table, and I waited for my moment.

Just as he reached out for the candy, I snatched my hand up and dumped them into my mouth. I smiled victoriously as his jaw dropped.

"No!" he yelled dramatically, his outstretched hand falling back to his side. "You stole my hearts!" he accused, pointing a shocked finger at me.

"I know one way you could get them back," I said, tilting my head.

He shook his head but smiled. He stepped toward me and pressed his lips against my mouth, kissing me until he'd stolen back the hearts. "You're an asshole," he said against my lips, chewing the hearts. "Now these taste like the white ones."

"I think you'll live," I muttered. "Wasn't it worth it?"

He rolled his eyes. "No," he said defiantly.

Now it was my turn to be shocked. "Come on now," I said with a laugh. "You didn't enjoy that at all?"

"I didn't say that," he said with a smile. "I said they tasted like the white ones. And I hate the white ones."

"I'm very, very sorry," I said apologetically with a mock frown. "Forgive me?"

He looked down and tried hard not to smile. "Fine. But never, ever steal my yellow hearts again," he said as seriously as he could.

"I promise," I said, nodding my head in fake solemnity.

So, of course, I repeated the crime about ten minutes later.

**A/N: See? Adorable. …review, please?**


	3. Just Dance

**A/N: So I'm sick again (even though I was JUST sick a week or two ago) and it's causing me extreme lack of sleep. Combined with cough medication and boredom, I've become extremely slap-happy today. This is the result… Riley POV, slash.**

**Disclaimer: Ben and Riley aren't mine, sadly, but if they were… I would be a lot less bored right now =D Oh, and "Just Dance" isn't mine either.**

Sometimes, when you feel frustrated or alone, or any feeling at all, the very best thing you can do is dance it out.

My mother instilled this belief into me long before I was old enough to realize that guys really don't dance. As a result, one of my favorite pastimes has always been to turn up my music and "dance it out."

It was one of those extremely long, unproductive days that could drive the most patient of people crazy. I felt that I had accomplished absolutely nothing—I'd spent seven hours on that stupid code, and it still wasn't working.

The code was a little ridiculous, actually. It was unimportant, but still I couldn't help but feel completely useless.

Frustrated, I shut my laptop and found my iPod in the mess of papers on the desk. I put it on shuffle and entered the kitchen.

At first, busying myself with the preparations for dinner, I wasn't really listening to the music. Once I'd gotten the skillet warmed up, however, the music was suddenly blaring in my ears.

"I've had a little bit too much/all of the people start to rush/Where does he twist the dance?/Can't find a drink, oh man…"

I pretend to glare at the voice in my head. "I will not just dance," I growled aloud, hoping that, by some strange force of nature, the song would change. But it didn't, and by the chorus, I just couldn't help myself.

I began to dance around the kitchen, singing the words I didn't really know. I was getting into the beat, and had almost completely forgotten about dinner.

"Just dance, it'll be okay… Isaac Newton, just dance!"

"_What_ are you listening to?"

Freezing at the sound of his voice, I slowly turned around. I dropped the butter knife I had been using for a microphone on the counter and met his eyes.

"Hi, Ben," I greeted, trying to eliminate the awkwardness. "What's up?"

"Don't try to get around it," he said, dropping his keys on the counter next to the knife. "What are you doing?"

"Cooking dinner," I explained. It was the truth, really. "Actually, you're in the way."

He stepped aside so I could flip the grilled cheese in the skillet. The now-cooked side was a little too burnt for my taste. "Damn," I muttered.

"I meant with the knife," he said.

"Oh, um…" I trailed off. "Iwasjustdancing," I muttered in a tiny voice.

"You were… just dancing?" he asked, a little incredulous.

"Yeah. It's the name of the song," I explained, finally removing my headphones since the song had ended.

"And in this dancing song, they talk about Isaac Newton?" he asked.

"Is that what I said?" I asked myself in a whisper. Then, addressing him, I explained, "I don't really know the words."

"Your sandwich is burning," he said suddenly.

The acrid scent of burnt bread reached my nostrils, and I turned toward the skillet with a grimace. Both sides of my dinner were irrevocably burned. Frustrated, I threw it on the plate. "I really, _really_ hate burned grilled cheese."

"I'll fix another one for you, and then I'll eat that one," he offered. "I like it burned. Besides, you're too distracted to make yourself dinner," he teased with a smile.

"That's not fair!" I accused. "You've never heard this song. It's addicting!"

"I highly doubt it's so addicting as to cause you to ruin your dinner," he said, eyebrows raised as he started making another sandwich.

"You wanna bet?" I asked. I was already turning to plug my iPod into the speakers in the living room.

"One-two-three-four!" shouted the rapper at the beginning. I hummed along, but Ben remained impervious to the effects of the hypnotic beat.

"You can't say this beat doesn't get to you," I said, swaying my hips just a bit as I got us drinks.

"Not at all," he said.

He was lying: although he wasn't flat-out dancing like me, he was moving in time to the rhythm and sort-of bobbing his head.

"You're a terrible dancer," I told him. "That's your problem."

"I am not!" he recoiled with a surprised look. He regained his composure and added, "Besides, what would it matter if I wasn't a good dancer?"

"You'd never have proper credibility with me," I told him. "My mother always said that you can express everything you feel through dancing if you do it right."

He raised an eyebrow as he placed my much less burnt grilled cheese on a plate. "I don't believe that either."

"Because you're a bad dancer," I explained, grabbing his wrist and pulling him toward the center of the kitchen. "It's easy enough, though. Just sway your hips in beat." I demonstrated my point by swaying and singing along, words improvised. He looked ridiculously embarrassed, and I couldn't help but laugh. "Try it!"

He rolled his eyes, but watched the moves I made, and soon enough we were both dancing around the kitchen. He kept bumping into me, which made me laugh, and by the end of the song we were laughing so hard we had to stop for air.

"Okay, so you were right about the song," he said, grabbing his plate with a smile.

"Aren't I always?" I asked with a proud grin as I sat down at the table

"Being right about one thing does not constitute constant correctness," he said with a grin, sitting down opposite me.

"Alliteration aside—" he grinned "—just because you're correct more often than I am doesn't mean I'm never correct."

"Very true," he answered. "But the way I recall it, my correct guess got us here in the first place."

I remembered that night with a grin. "True. Happy 6 month anniversary."

"The same to you," he said with a grin. "And guess what's for dessert?"

"Candy hearts?" I asked, excited.

"And a little more…"

**A/N: I'll let you think what you will of that last line =D …review, please?**


	4. This Is For Real

**A/N: This should be interesting, as I've never been in a relationship before, and therefore am guessing at most everything that follows. But it's cute enough.**

**Disclaimer:** **Valentine's Day has come and gone, and I still don't have Riley and Ben. I didn't even get the National Treasure 2 DVD like I wanted =/**

Yo-yos are a simple contraption. They're just weights attached to a string, really. You could build one yourself if you wanted to. The tricks you can perform with a yo-yo are the things that make it so special, so unique.

Unfortunately, life isn't like a yo-yo. Relationships, definitely, are not like yo-yos. There is nothing simple about loving your best friend, who is also a guy. There is nothing simple about being afraid to tell him so, even when I know he feels the same. Or at least I think so.

It was upon those thoughts I was meditating late one night. I had woken in the middle of the night and had found that I was completely unable to return to sleep, and those thoughts had plagued my mind. I quickly found that my computer was unable to distract me, and so I pulled out my yo-yo and sat on the back of the couch, watching it fall down and return to my hand.

Down, up, down, up, down, up. It was becoming a trance to my sleep-deprived mind.

Down, up.

Down, up.

Down, up.

"Riley?"

His voice shocked me, and I dropped the yo-yo. "Ben?" I asked. "What are you doing up?"

"You weren't in bed," he explained. "Why are you playing with a yo-yo in the middle of the night?"

I picked it up, a little embarrassed. "I couldn't sleep," I muttered, stuffing it into the pocket of my hoodie.

He sat next to me. "Why couldn't you sleep?"

"I don't know," I admitted, looking at him. "I just couldn't get my mind to turn off."

He nodded, and neither of us said anything for a while. It was actually nice, at first, but I couldn't keep my lips together.

"You know, I won a talent contest at my school eighth grade year yo-yoing," I told him.

"Really?" he asked, interested.

"Yeah. I actually got a date out of it," I laughed quietly.

He didn't have anything to say to that, so we returned to silence. Finally he spoke again. "So what's wrong?"

"What makes you think anything is wrong?" I asked, a little defiantly.

"That's the third night this week I've woken up and you've been gone. Clearly something is on your mind," he said, laying a hand on my back.

Damn. He had me. I stayed silent, hoping he'd lay off.

"Ri, come on," he said. "Tell me what's wrong."

I stood and began to pace nervously in front of him. Finally, I stopped. "Have you… have you ever been with another guy before me?"

His eyebrows raised for a moment, then relaxed again. He pondered his answer for a moment. "Clarify 'been with.'"

I sighed. "Let's start with kissing. Have you ever kissed another guy before me?"

He grimaced. "Once. It was in college. We were drunk. I don't really remember it."

I bit my lip. "How far did it go?"

"I passed out before we could go any further than that," he said, before adding, "I was a lightweight."

I paced again. "And you?" he asked.

I frowned. "Once. In high school."

He looked skeptically at me. "That's all the details I'm getting?"

"You want them all?" I asked.

He nodded. "Every last one."

I retook my spot next to him. "It was more than kissing," I warned.

"I thought so," he agreed.

I sighed. "His name was Josh Carter. He was the starting quarterback on the football team; he was totally gorgeous, notoriously single, and completely unattainable. We were chem. partners junior year, and he had no idea what he was doing. We were studying at my house one day, and one thing led to another…" I shrugged and, pulling the yo-yo back out, let it fall from my hand.

"What happened?" he asked, prodding me gently forward.

"We were sort of together for a while," I answered. "He didn't want anyone to know, of course, but soon enough there were whispers about me, so he left before it got out who I was with. I don't really blame him."

He glared at me, as if he wanted to say, "I do." But he didn't. Instead he asked, "Did you love him?"

I should have known he knew the whole time. "I thought I did," I answered.

"And now?" he asked, raising his eyebrows.

"How'd you know that was what's been bugging me?" I asked, exasperated.

"Your first question," he replied. "And I basically make my living off crazy guesses. But I still want to hear the answer to my last question."

I bit my lip and looked away, trying to decide how to word it. Frustrated, I paced again. "You know that anxious feeling you get in the bottom of your stomach when you're excited?"

"Otherwise known as butterflies?" he asked lightly. "Yes."

I took a deep breath. "I get that all the time when I'm with you. Not just at a certain moment, but all the time. It's like the butterflies, as you oh-so-eloquently put it, are having a never-ending party down there. And I never felt that way with him." I tacked the last part on as an afterthought, hoping he would get the point without me having to say it out loud.

He chewed his lip in contemplation. "So what you're saying is…?" He let the question hang in the air.

"You can be really stupid sometimes," I muttered. More clearly I said, "What I'm saying is I think I love you, but I'm not sure."

He blinked once—twice. "You're not sure that you love me or you're not sure what love is?" he asked.

"The second one," I confirmed.

He nodded, then stood. Crossing over to me, he wrapped his arms around me and placed his lips gently on mine.

Fire erupted in all my veins, as it usually did when we touched. For the few moments we kissed, he was all I could see or think of.

Then, just as abruptly as it started, it stopped, but he never moved his arms from where they were. I leaned my head into his chest and breathed deeply, loving how well I fit there. Even in the middle of the night, he smelled like the musky cologne he wore during the day that I loved.

"What are you thinking about?" he asked quietly.

"How good you smell," I admitted.

I looked up to him, and he smiled. "That's love," he said.

I stepped back. "What?"

He laughed quietly. "You just kissed me for, what, two or three minutes? And thirty seconds later you're thinking about the way I smell. That's love."

I thought about it for a moment. Had we really kissed for two or three minutes? And he was right. Softly I asked, "What were you thinking about?"

He smiled. "How much I like your haircut."

I took his hand. "I think I can sleep now."

**A/N: So… was it okay? I didn't think it sucked. …review, please?**


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